Minutes passed. Suddenly a scream rent the air. A new fear sent him into another panic. He wanted to call out, but knew it would be death to do so. He hurried his pace; he had to find his mother; they must not be separated!
As if sensing their danger, young Dhalvad rode silently in his brother’s arms, his crystal eyes round with fear.
Bhaldavin paused as he reached a small opening in the trees. He looked left and right, then made a wild dash over the open ground. He was halfway across the small meadow when something caught his eye: a body, lying facedown in a patch of trampled grass.
His steps faltered and he stopped. Slowly he approached the body, forgetting the danger found in the open. Dark green hair blended with the grass; the body was in a strange, twisted position, and the brown tunic and leggings were slashed and stained with blood.
Bhaldavin’s heart thundered loudly in his ears as he set Dhalvad down and knelt by the body. Slowly he turned it over. Through tear-blurred eyes he saw his mother’s face, her eyes open, a river of blood glistening in her hair. Baby Telia, also dead, lay beneath his mother’s body.
Rage and grief carried Bhaldavin away from the scene, Dhalvad once again in his arms. There was a time of hiding. Then came Haradan, a tall, dark-haired man who carried no sword; who led them safely through the woods; who took them across the river farther into the Deep where no one would follow.
Days passed. The man stayed with them, built a tree home for them, and promised his friendship—but Bhaldavin dared not trust.
One night Bhaldavin came and knelt beside the sleeping Haradan, a knife clutched tightly in both hands. One quick downward thrust and the man would cease to be a problem, he thought, but if he failed to kill quickly and cleanly, he would never get another chance. Haradan was too strong a man and would be too formidable an enemy.
He listened to Haradan breathe, and suddenly the thought of struggling in the darkness against such an opponent sapped his will. Slowly he sat back on his heels, trying to calm the wild beating of his heart.
Minutes passed as he tried to recapture the sense of urgency that had driven him to attempt murder. It had begun with the discovery of a dead campfire and a series of twigs set upright in the ground—a Ni trail marker.
Haradan rolled over in his sleep. Bhaldavin froze, hardly daring to breathe. In that moment he knew that killing Haradan was not the answer to his problem.
Since seeing that marker, he had decided to go in search of the Ni who had passed their way. But he would have to leave Dhalvad behind. He had no doubt that he could take care of Dhalvad by himself, but there would be danger on the trail, from draak, gensvolf, and man; and the thought of trying to evade such dangers while burdened with his young brother made him acknowledge the fact that he needed Haradan a while longer.
Slowly, cautiously, he backed away from the man and made his way to his brother’s pallet. He kissed the top of Dhalvad’s head and carefully placed a leather thong around the child’s neck. Hanging from the thong was his father’s fire stone ring, a promise to Dhalvad that he would be back as soon as possible. Moments later he was out the cabin door and descending the tree.
At first light he located the markers he had discovered the day before and started out, his heart light with the hope that by the end of the day or early the next, he would catch up with the unknown Ni who had left the trail.
The Deep was alive with birds, the bushes and grass wet with morning dew. The different shades of green and brown that bedecked the swamplands were enhanced by the contrast of white-and-yellow flowers growing on the fringe of small bogs and along the streams leading to the main river.
Once or twice that morning, he slowed his ground-eating pace and stopped to study his surroundings. He wasn’t familiar with the lands north of the Gobar River, but he knew that men had begun to settle there.
Dusk entered the Deep. He located a protected place between the exposed roots of an old tree and sat down to eat. A handful of hait nuts and several dried bora roots were washed down with water; then he climbed the tree and settled down for the night.
Late in the afternoon of his third day on the trail, he had the distinct feeling of being watched. Eyes and ears alert for sounds or movement, he stepped up his pace. He jumped a small rivulet and found the Ni trail markers once again, this time indicating the left fork in the forest trail ahead.
Again and again he turned to look behind him, but saw no one. Soon the back of his legs began to ache and his breathing became labored.
Suddenly some inner warning made him turn and look back just as three dark shadows loped into view.
Gensvolf! Their dark-furred bodies flashing in and out of the dappled sunlight, the four-legged carnivores ran silently, yellow eyes gleaming with the sight of their prey.
Bhaldavin turned and bolted down the trail, feet flying over fallen branches and uneven ground. He searched frantically for a climbable tree, but those that offered any safety also had branches too high to reach. The thought of sharp teeth ripping at his throat lent him new strength and he redoubled his efforts.
The path ended abruptly at the edge of a river. Bhaldavin never hesitated, but threw himself into the water headfirst, abandoning his small pack. He surfaced and stroked for the opposite shore. He heard two splashes behind him, then a third.
When he reached the opposite shore, he looked back to see the tenacious beasts paddling after him, heads and shoulders high out of the water as they swam.
Bhaldavin ran on, taking the narrow path that led away from the river. The gensvolf lunged out of the water and took up the chase only moments behind him. He slipped and almost fell, and suddenly one of the gensvolf was at his heels, snapping at his legs.
Terrified, Bhaldavin broke out into the open and dashed past two startled men who were cutting and stacking long grain, the waist-high grass that men called wheat.
One of them shouted when he saw Bhaldavin; then both were diving out of the path of the gensvolf, scrambling for their weapons.
Bhaldavin ran straight for the wagon in the center of the field. The three men working near the wagon saw the danger approaching and quickly dropped their loads of wheat, turning to snatch up swords or bows.
A heavy weight hit Bhaldavin from behind. He heard the click of teeth as the ground came up at him. Quickly he rolled into a ball, trying to protect his neck and throat from the ravaging teeth. Suddenly something clamped on to his left arm above the elbow.
A man’s yell drowned out Bhaldavin’s cry as a sword flashed downward. The gensvolf released Bhaldavin’s arm and leaped away, then fell, its almost-severed leg dragging it down. Snarling defiance, the beast got up.
Bhaldavin rolled to one side and looked up just as the wounded beast leaped for the man’s throat. The solid thunk of an arrow striking its target was clearly audible. The gensvolf yelped and dropped back, then flopped around on the ground a moment or two before it stilled.
Bhaldavin lay where he had fallen, trembling with exhaustion. The two men who had been at the edge of the field ran up to join their friends. The other two gensvolf had disappeared, retreating back into the forest to find easier prey.
One of the men knelt beside Bhaldavin. “Are you all right, boy?”
Bhaldavin flinched as the man pulled at his tunic, exposing the torn skin on his arm.
The man who had cut the gensvolf with his sword cleaned his blade in the dirt, then came and stood nearby. “Another minute and the gensvolf would have had him.”
“He’s bleeding, Lanier,” the other man said, “but I think he’s more frightened than hurt. Boy, what are you doing out here alone? What village are you from?”
Suddenly Lanier leaned down and grabbed a handful of Bhaldavin’s wet hair. After a close look at the hair, he forced Bhaldavin’s head back, exposing his face.
Bhaldavin tried to shield his eyes with his hand, but it was knocked away.
Lanier dragged Bhaldavin to his feet. “Draak scales, Kelsa! It’s one of the Green Ones!”
> “Easy, Lanier,” Kelsa admonished. “He’s hurt.”
The two men who had been looking over the gensvolf joined their friends, closing in a circle around Bhaldavin.
“Look what we caught,” Lanier said, thrusting Bhaldavin forward, yet keeping a tight grip on the back of his neck.
One of the men, older than the others, looked into Bhaldavin’s eyes and frowned. “Are you alone, Green One?”
When Bhaldavin failed to respond, Lanier tightened his hold. “Answer him!”
“Yes,” Bhaldavin answered in trader.
The older man looked at Lanier. “Let him go.”
“No! He’s worth money. The Sarissa are paying twenty-five marks a head for them, even the young ones.”
Gradually the strength was returning to Bhaldavin’s legs. He glanced around at the other men as his breathing steadied.
“It’s blood money, Lanier,” the old man said. “I say let him go. The Green Ones have never done anything to us.”
Lanier pulled Bhaldavin back against him. “If you don’t want a share, Vaan, we won’t make you take it, will we, Kelsa?”
“We can argue about this later,” Kelsa said. “Right now we have the rest of the field to clear. Come on, let’s get back to work. I want to be back inside the stockade before dark.”
“Kelsa’s right,” one of the others said. “Lanier, why not tie him up near the wagon for now. We can take him back with us and decide what to do with him later. You’d also better tie up that wound.”
Vaan and Lanier finally agreed, and as Lanier led Bhaldavin toward the wagon, the other men returned to work.
Bhaldavin waited for the right moment, and as Lanier set his sword on the wagon seat and bent over to search for a rope, Bhaldavin leaned over and bit Lanier’s hand.
Lanier gasped and swore as Bhaldavin tore from his grasp; then he started yelling at the top of his lungs.
Bhaldavin sprinted across the cut field toward the trees. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Lanier, Kelsa, and another man coming after him. He reached the shelter of the trees moments ahead of them and ran on, leaving the open trail and weaving in and around bushes that would slow down the larger men. He heard them pushing through the underbrush behind him; they were swearing and yelling at each other. For the first time in days, Bhaldavin smiled.
Once well away from the men who had thought to sell him to the Sarissa, he spent several hours searching for Ni trail markers, but all he found was a path that led to the outskirts of a man village situated on the south bank of a river. He retreated to the forest. Some time later he found a good place to swim the river. He moved cautiously from that point on, wary now of stumbling upon other man settlements.
Darkness found Bhaldavin perched high in the branches of an aban tree. He was tired and hungry, and his wounded arm was a fiery torment. He tried to find a more comfortable position and eased his back against the trunk of the tree. The compress of wet lonary leaves he had put on his arm had long since dried, but he was too tired to climb back down the tree to rewet them.
As the last rays of light faded from the sky, he thought about his brother and the man Haradan, and for a little while he wished himself back with them, safe and well fed. But then he remembered Lanier and Kelsa and what they had wanted to do with him. How long before Haradan succumbs to the same greed? he wondered.
He pictured his young brother in his mind, and silently vowed to return to him as soon as possible.
Bhaldavin woke from restless sleep to hear a gensvolf snuffling at the base of the tree. He remained motionless and listened as it circled the tree several times and moved off.
Later that morning, just as Ra-shun’s light touched the sky, a large draak appeared out of the mist, its green scales glistening with dew. Its long reptilian neck wound back and forth as it searched the tall meadow grass south of Bhaldavin’s tree. It moved with surprising stealth.
Suddenly something moved in the grass. The draak lunged forward, its jaws snapping up a young bomal on its second bound. The death cry of the usually silent bomal made Bhaldavin shiver. The draak moved off a short distance and proceeded to devour its kill.
Watching the draak eat made Bhaldavin feel ill. He raised a hand and wiped a sheen of perspiration from his forehead, then laid his head down on his good arm and breathed deeply, trying to quell the churning in his stomach.
After the draak had moved off, he climbed down the tree and made his way across the meadow to a small stream he had passed the day before. He scanned the nearby trees looking for potential danger, then sat down at the edge of the water and drank greedily. He wasn’t sure if the poison in his system had come from the gensvolf’s bite or from the river water he had used to soak the lonary leaves, but whatever the source of the poison, what mattered now was finding the right type of herb poultice to draw it out.
Hours passed. He continued walking, and renewed the poultice several times, shuddering with relief as the burning heat gradually lost its bite.
Later in the day his sight blurred. He stumbled and fell several times, and found it harder and harder to get up again. The sharp cry of a neeva bird brought him out of his stupor, and he pushed to his feet again, taking the path that seemed to open before him.
Suddenly he smelled smoke; it had a strange, unpleasant smell and came drifting to him from the east. He could just see wisps of it pass through the trees ahead. He took the pathway to his right and a few minutes later came to a row of upright stakes, sharp points slanted outward. He had seen such stakes before, around a large Ni holding at the edge of the Enzaar Sea only two days from his old home.
He hurried forward and stepped through the narrow gateway. The first thing he saw was the smoldering ruins of what had once been a house and, beyond that, more houses, their rambling structures and open design identifying them as Ni. He held his breath as he walked past the first building. The stench of charred flesh was strong now, and he needed no closer look to know that one or more Ni had died in the fires. He continued walking, his hopes dying.
He moved toward the front door of one of the homes and peered inside. An ominous growling erupted from one corner of the first room. The shadows were deep, but in the gloom he saw the glimmer of amber-colored eyes.
The gensvolf stood up, snarling. Bhaldavin took one glance at the gaping hole in the body on which the gensvolf was feeding and backed away, sickness welling up inside.
He stumbled past another house, then fell to his hands and knees as his stomach gave up its contents. Minutes later he sat braced by his good arm, trembling and weak. He knew he should get up, but his legs didn’t want to cooperate. He crawled to a nearby tree and slumped down.
Night shadows deepened under the trees, and still he didn’t move. He saw the gensvolf finally slink out of the house, its stomach bulging. It stopped and looked at him, then moved on, disappearing into the surrounding night.
The Ni holding was dead, and though he hadn’t seen the men come, he knew they had been there, for the People would never leave one of their own to be food for carrion eaters. How many others lay dead in their homes? he wondered. How many had escaped?
I’ll look for their trail come morning, he thought.
You will be dead in the morning if you don’t move, a small inner voice warned.
Bhaldavin’s eyes grew heavy. “No. I’ll stay here. I’m not afraid.”
The gensvolf will come.
“Let them.”
The small voice continued to whisper warnings, but he was past hearing them.
“Is he alive?”
Bhaldavin felt hands on his face. He tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t.
Another voice came out of the void. “He’s breathing and his heart is beating strong, but he’s burning with fever. One arm has been chewed badly. Judging from the marks, I’d say he’s fought with a gensvolf.”
“We must have missed him in our first gather. It’s lucky we found him before the gensvolf returned to make a meal out of him.”
> Bhaldavin’s next awareness was of something wet at his lips. He drank as someone held him up. A few minutes later he opened his eyes. He blinked several times, and gradually his sight cleared. A man knelt beside him and gently laid a cool cloth on his forehead.
Another man stepped into view. He had a bushy gray beard and hard blue eyes. “How is he?”
Bhaldavin was sure he had never seen either man before. He was vaguely aware of other voices nearby, but any fear he might have felt was so overlaid with pain that there was no room to give it notice.
“His arm is bad, Wils. It’s poisoned his entire system.”
“Will he live, Bran?”
“I don’t know.”
“Gavin means to sell the old and wounded and keep the young healthy ones.”
“He probably won’t have to worry about this one. He’ll be lucky to live out the week.”
Days passed. Sometimes Bhaldavin was aware of those around him; at other times he was lost in a dreamworld where he was being chased by gensvolf or men brandishing swords.
One morning the man called Wils reappeared. “Any change in him?”
Bran looked up. He had just finished draining off some of the pus from Bhaldavin’s wound. “He drinks, but can’t keep any food down, and he runs a fever most of the time. As you can see, the arm is getting worse.”
Bhaldavin lay shivering in bed, eyes wide in pain. Bran released the ropes that held Bhaldavin during the painful process of cleansing the wound.
Wils motioned to Bran, and together the two men moved to the other side of the room where they talked quietly for a few minutes.
Wils left. Bran returned and gave Bhaldavin a drink of kansa juice laced with verron sap, a bitter-tasting brew that was often used as a painkiller. Bran forced Bhaldavin to drink deeply, then sat beside him until he was sure the drug was taking effect.
A strange fuzziness crept over Bhaldavin’s mind, and he lost track of the movements in and out of the hut. Once he opened his eyes and saw Bran sorting through a number of knives lying on a benchlike table on the other side of the room.
Beyond the Draak’s Teeth Page 12
